There are times when I feel
that I have already forgotten you
but those don't happen as often
as when you pass through me like a feeling
going about your business
touching my core, wounding it
and then moving away without warning.
I see you
in lights dancing in my room.
For a while, what bliss.
But lights fade, too, without notice.
That is how I understood
why they draw your face
as if they know you very well.
This morning I left the kettle screaming.
It is hard to listen to any sound
other than confusion
which is louder.
Now there is a fly that just landed on my 835-page book.
How I want to **** it.
Yet how I want to let it linger a bit longer
to distract me
from trying to understand you
like a language,
Dear, I knew leaving
I had grown used to the sound of it,
but never like this,
never when leaving left me longing.
Longing is a thing you taught me.
Longing is an insect that stings.
Longing is a song on repeat.
Longing is a period drama that said,
"It was every day implied but never declared."
Longing is a place I do not want to be at.
Longing is a music festival with a sea of thousand faces
but with yours I'm trying to find.
Longing is a quiet bench by the park.
Longing is me forgetting how beer tastes like
without your memory in it.
Longing is me wanting to tell you about my drunken nights.
You used to know about those nights.
Now I only talk to you in dreams.
In one dream I touched your hand
I didn't see your face
but I knew it was you,
like the pain that tapped my shoulder so I would wake up
it had no skin that I could tear off
but I knew it came from you.
I sometimes sit by the window
trying to feel only the wind
but there you are again,
making me think about the day
when you told me you were stuck four hours in traffic.
It was a Friday night in EDSA.
I laughed that it surprised you.
Tell me about the ghosts inside your bedroom.
And I'll tell you about mine
How they fade away when you're nearby.
Have you heard about this feeling?
How I want it to die.
Tell me you're close by
Or tell me you're far from here
Just tell me anyhow
For I do not know
when will I ever stop waiting.
Dear, I have been locking the doors hundreds of times.
It wasn't my brain that told me I should.
It was November.
But I want you to know
I still have my windows open.
Dear, I am terribly confused.
I am afraid to be the forest,
to still be here,
even after you burned me to the ground,
when I used to be the wildfire,
the one that burns
the one that doesn't wait.
But now I am the ash,
longing to rise back once again to myself
longing to not feel you anywhere
longing to not feel.
But, dear, I still am terribly confused.